Not a Necrophiliac
by Oblong features
Summary: "Her skin was so smooth, so silky, almost like it had been freshly moisturized… if Dan could have a woman, God damn it, why couldn't I?" Herbert finally has his woman. Oneshot, written in first person. Rated M for sexual acts. Crits, not dicks, please!


_Okay, I own neither Jeffrey Combs nor Herbert West, but I am an avid fan, and I do love to write, so this may be a little OOC (at the end), but frankly, no one's perfect. Please don't belittle me for being a fan and writing what I like._

Many people are offended by the smell of a dead body. Or rather, rotting flesh, not necessarily a full body. Me, I've grown accustomed to it, spending majority of my time around the dead, discounting my roommate, Dan. Though truthfully, of late, I've developed similar feelings for the two entities—Dan has been engrossed in his latest female toy and ignoring me and my research, as he does when a good looking woman pays him some mind. When he gets like this I grow angry, withdrawn, and, I'll admit it, a bit jealous. Call my reaction childish if you want, but no woman has ever given me that kind of attention before, and it kills me to watch a man with less than half of my intellect having a new girl every week. I've thought about making one for myself—a woman, I mean, but I'm not a necrophiliac. That pervasive decaying smell on someone you sleep naked next to doesn't sound appealing to me at all.

Which leads me to my story.

I am not a necrophiliac.

The other night, I brought home from the hospital a rare and beautiful specimen to experiment on—the torso and hips of a young woman, all in one piece. It was exceptional; she had just passed away that day on the operating table from a gruesome leg injury, a foolish mistake made by an amateur physician, leaving from her collarbone to her ribcage to the crease of her hips and all of her genitalia untouched by instruments of any kind. She was shapely, carved like an ancient stone statue by the hands of perfect genetics. Having had quite enough of being strangled this week, I decided to leave her arms at the hospital to rot away as they may and sneak the torso home with me. It wasn't that difficult—she must have been short, for she fit easily in a duffel bag Dan used to take home his scrubs. Strange how no one questions a doctor with a big bag anymore. But that's a story all on its own.

It was around three in the morning, so Daniel and his girlfriend had quieted down (finally), and I was alone with the piece of flesh. I injected a little regeneration serum into it, and suddenly, it arched her its' back—not violently, like I was used to—softly, as if it was stretching from a long nap. Upon realizing the rest of its body was gone, it shifted its spine to adjust to its new, limbless figure, and seemed to panic. Almost as an immediate reflex, I gently touched its' shoulder, right near where her arm was severed clean off, to let it know there was someone there, you know, to settle her down. She calmed down slowly, sinking her shoulder into my hand. Her skin was so smooth, so silky, almost like it had been freshly moisturized… if Dan could have a woman, God damn it, why couldn't I! And this was for science! Science, not just gallivanting around, fucking anything that walked on two legs with long hair and nice tits—…

I slid my left hand from her shoulder to her collarbone, and down to her left breast, my right hand poised above my notebook. I could feel the movements of her chest start to relax in a convex motion, breathing slowly through the hole in the place that should have been her neck as she acclimated to her figure. I began to massage her breast, and saw her breathing becoming slightly more erratic—I was seriously wondering if, wherever her head was, she was enjoying it as much as I was. Her nipple erected, I recorded that much, but after examining her top to bottom, running my hands down her unblemished stomach, tracing my fingers down her body's creases and gripping gently at her smooth back, her unbelievably smooth, soft, perfect back, I dropped the pen and raised my right hand to her other breast, massaging as I did with the left, teasing her nipple with my finger. Her back slightly arched whenever I'd touch her nipples, cold, hard, like felt. I caught myself breathing in sync with her, slightly faster, overwhelmed with the strangest feeling—the only thing I could think about was how I always told Daniel not to use his "little head" to make decisions as I bent over her and rested my tongue on her nipple—oh, God, it was so soft, like velvet! I wrapped my arms around her small, figurine torso as her back arched with the matrimony of our bodies. I didn't even take notes. Engrossed in her, I let my lips lead my down to her hips, the bones protruding above the bloody stump where her leg should have been, almost like a directional signal to her fresh, damp-...

It was wet when our lips met—something I never recorded on paper, but never needed to—I'll remember that, I will. Her back arched more than it ever had before, feeding into my mouth like any woman, like any lover. My right hand continued massaging one of her breasts and my left was firmly fastened to the center of her body, rocking her up and down, the pleasure making her shake. I'll admit that for a while I forgot myself in her. We forgot ourselves in each other. I know she felt the same way. I know she did.

A door slammed. Daniel was upstairs, and he was awake. I couldn't possibly let him know I had been doing this; I would be mortified to this day had he found out. I rose abruptly, remembering where I was and what I had to do, and ran over to the surgeon's table and grabbed the biggest surgical knife we had.

And I drove it into her chest.

Quickly,

effortlessly,

but not without guilt.

I shoved her into a garbage bag, my stomach in my throat, my lower lip stiff and withdrawn and tears welling in my eyes, and I sat at the desk, pretending I was busy, pretending to take notes.

And the door slammed again.

Muffled voices began talking.

Dan and his girlfriend.

He wasn't coming for me.

I dashed to the trash bag, where she was still bleeding, squirming, her spine arched in pain, pleading for help. I was disgusted with myself. On a whim—on a whim I had discarded her, like commonplace trash! I cast the bag aside and cradled her in my arms, the blood from her aortic artery spraying on another one of my cheap shirts, feeling her relax, tense, relax and tense in my embrace—God, my embrace! And finally, it fell limp, the same hunk of meat I had brought to the basement that night, in its' sad former state.

I kissed her thick, congealing shoulder, holding her decomposing body in my arms,  
I took her to our operating table,  
I sewed her up as effectively as I could,  
I gave her some reagent-…


End file.
